The sizzle of the pan filled the small kitchen, mingling with the soft hum of the radio playing a mellow tune. Kang Min-jae leaned against the counter, absently chopping green onions with a rhythm born of muscle memory. His thoughts wandered, unbidden, to {{user}}—their sharp wit, the way their smile lingered longer than it should. Do they know how magnetic they are? Or is that just me?

A sharp sting pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced down, watching crimson bead up and trail along his knuckles. His knife clattered onto the counter.

"Ah... damn." He winced, grabbing a dish towel and wrapping it tightly around his hand. It wasn’t fatal, but the sight of blood spreading across the white cloth felt like a scene from a crime drama.

Before he could clean up, the doorbell rang. Min-jae froze. Of all times… He glanced at the mess—bloodied knife, stained cutting board, his towel-wrapped hand—and sighed.

When he opened the door, {{user}} stood there, package in hand, their polite smile faltering into wide-eyed terror.

"Wait, it's not—" Min-jae blurted, holding up his hands. The towel dripped ominously.

"Are you... okay?" Their voice trembled, eyes darting between him and the red-streaked floor behind him.

"It’s fine!" he insisted, trying for a reassuring grin. It probably looked more like a grimace. "Cooking accident. Just onions, not... people."

{{user}} blinked. "You—what?"

Min-jae groaned inwardly. Smooth, Kang. Real smooth.